Paternity
by Chewing Gum
Summary: Drabbles series. Holmes knew it was a mistake, but for one night, the night before The Woman left to be married, he abandoned inhibitions. There is a price to pay, but the usual person is not paying it... General AUness/crackfic. No pairings.
1. impending

_AN: So, yeah… No slash, but this is AU to the nth degree. AU to both ACD's work and biology as we know it. This was inspired by Thomas Beatie and his newborn daughter, as well as the "omg babies" mood PA has me in. Before you ask, no, there's likely not going to be a proper explanation for the events in this story. If pressed, my answer would be "voodoo, because it's the babe's power" (shout out to all the other Jim Henson dorks). Thusly, the author kindly requests you put aside all firm knowledge of human reproduction for the duration of this story or go read "Perpetual Anticipation", where at least the pregnancy makes sense. Bottom of the line, this is for my own amusement and for the amusement of anyone else who has a sense of humour like mine. Enjoy. Or don't._

"Damn Irene Norton to the ninth circle of Hell!"

Dr. John Watson gave a weary sigh as he brought the bowl of cool water and the dish of ice chips to the bed where his friend was currently writhing about like a grounded eel drowning in air, cursing the name and soul of the woman who had contributed to his current status.

"Stop tossing about like that, you'll only make it worse," the doctor warned, gripping his thin shoulders in his strong grasp. "This is as much your fault as hers."

"She's not the one about to push out six pounds of parasite!"

"You're not pushing out anything but complaints. I've sent a message to Mycroft, and he's fetching a very tight-lipped doctor he knows who is an expert on caesarean sections. It should not be much longer. Now take some of these ice chips before you become dehydrated."

The detective relented, crunching the chips between his teeth despite Watson's grimace at the action. "I hope that woman has triplets…!"

"Let's concentrate on this one child first, shall we?" Watson could not help but wonder if Mrs. Norton, many, many miles away and unaware of the situation, was experiencing a burning of the ears.


	2. half of a set

There has likely never been an official study, but it seems that the act of conception out of wedlock is very frequently preceded by the consumption of alcohol.

Irene Adler had been in London for a very short theatre engagement. Within two weeks she would become Mrs. Irene Norton, and for this she was simultaneously excited and scared out of her mind. It had been a whim to go visit Holmes. She thought perhaps he could shout some sense into her.

Holmes, as it so happened, had nothing better to do than make a night out of shouting some sense into her. Watson was gone for a medical conference and he had no cases. Left to his own devices, he would only creep towards the needle, something his friend was strongly opposed to.

And so he was dragged out to a halfway respectable bar by the redheaded contralto and they each put in half for a prime bottle of cognac. As the night passed, there seemed to be a direct correlation between the slipshoddiness of their deductions and the decrease of the liquid in the bottle.

Miss Adler's hotel room went without an occupant that night.

In the morning she did not so much as stay for coffee. No sense alarming Mrs. Hudson, after all. She did not love Holmes; the last chance to prove this had passed, but at least passed pleasantly. When she left, that was to be the end of it.

Upon gathering up her things, she forgot two halves of things; half of a set of stockings and half of a set of chromosomes.


	3. disguised

"Holmes?"

"Hmm?" the detective responded, if it could be called a response at all as he peered through the bubbling test tube with the expression of a grammar school boy attempting to decipher a particularly troubling algebra question.

"What exactly is this?"

It had been a week since "The Incident" with "The Woman", and when Holmes looked up to see Watson holding the forgotten stocking, he could not help but muse that it had hid itself for quite some time. Then again, in the chaos of the flat anything could pull a disappearing act for as long as it pleased. Mrs. Hudson swore she has been missing a pair of sugar tongs for a good four months.

"Part of a disguise I was using," he dismissed, returning to his work. Best to be vague about the whole thing. Admitting the truth to Watson would mean him encouraging his friend to "talk to her and open up about your feelings." He had no feelings that had not run out of his body with the last of the cognac.

"What were you using only one woman's stocking for?" The doctor paused, mused on this statement, and then threw it in the rubbish bin. It looked rather worn. "Actually, do not answer. I am not sure I want to know."

"For the best," agreed Holmes, his mind still on his chemicals.


	4. ginger tea

Watson gave an apprehensive knock on the door of the water closet, not wanting to irritate his friend any more than his illness already had. "Are you alright, Holmes?"

There was a muffled yet distinctly affirmative reply along with another retching noise.

The doctor was more than used to vomit, and if Holmes would have allowed it he would have been kneeling by his side in an attempt to help him. After countless children had sicked up on your shirtfront in the middle of an exam, it lost most of its disgust factor and became just another unpleasant fact of life.

"Are you absolutely sure? Mrs. Hudson is making you some ginger tea; it may help with the nausea and keep you hydrated. Dehydration is a flu sufferer's worse enemy, after all. It merely seems like a sudden onset case of influenza, so with a little rest and some fluids you should be up and at it in no time."

The door creaked open to reveal the great detective, currently reduced to a hunched, sunken-faced, sickly man. "You're certain?"

"Fairly certain. There's no cause for alarm, in any case."

Still… It was likely nothing, but one minor detail kept tugging at the doctor's common sense. For a flu victim, Holmes was not showing so much as a trace of a fever flush…

This thought was interrupted when their blessed landlady came bustling up, setting the tea on the table and rushing over to herd Holmes over to the sofa where there was a pile of pillows and warm blankets waiting.


	5. booked solid

"Holmes, are you certain you're ready to take on another case?" questioned Watson. The man still looked green around the gills, so to speak, and while he had not actually vomited in two days, he was spending quite a lot of time lingering in the bathroom.

The detective smoothed back his hair and did up the last button on his waistcoat. "I need to get back into the swing of things before I go mad. I am perfectly alright." Not entirely true; his chest was tender to the touch. Had it been sore in general, he would have attributed to the amount of work that went into bringing food back up when it was not supposed to, but… All the same, he could not let Watson, or anyone else, know he was still under the weather. With sickness came doctors, hospitals… All things he detested.

Holmes strode into the sitting room where Mrs. Hudson was serving their newest client tea. He ignored the landlady's worried gaze, instead looking upon the impeccably dressed noble before him. "Count Dumont, a pleasure, of course." He sat opposite the man, grey eyes focusing on the task like a horse with its blinders on. "Your case pertains your wife, but the fault is not against her. It is against her sister."

The blond man blinked, the usual bovine astonishment of clients passing over his face. "Yes, how did you…" A pause and a frown. "Mr. Holmes, are you alright…?"

The lanky man had begun to make several retching sounds in the back of his throat, reminding Watson of a cat one of his dorm mates had kept for some length of time. He leapt up and dashed forward, pitching towards the count who scrambled back with a cry, likely knowing what that sound was the prelude to. Holmes managed to vault over the back of the couch and make it into the water closet, likely to remain there for quite some time.

"I think," spoke Watson to the startled noble, who was craning his neck to see into the other room. "Mr. Holmes's schedule is full for the time being."


	6. desperate times

Expert from the private journals of Dr. John H. Watson

My dear friend Sherlock Holmes has been experiencing a most troublesome sickness on and off, mostly on, for nearly three months. He has been vomiting often, but I have altered his diet many times and he still finds no relief, making a food allergy unlikely. I have banned tobacco and narcotics from the flat (and sleep with one eye open for any signs of retaliation), thinking perhaps the strength of his weed and drug had caught up with him, but this barely alleviates his symptoms. He has not put mouth to glass for alcohol in quite some time, so that cannot be the issue.

Nausea was the first symptom, but not the last. He recently confessed tenderness of his chest, but insists it is not muscle strain as a result of the vomiting. He has also been more apt to rush through moods than usual, but this may be a defence. He is not used to being so sick, and is likely embarrassed of the weakness.

I am beginning to fear that this illness is far beyond my knowledge, for I can find no culprit with the clues his body gives me. I suspect some sort of exotic parasite or a slow-acting poison, perhaps planted by one seeking revenge. He has refused so far to see another doctor, and I have a feeling that should one make a house call, he would lock himself in his room like an unruly child.

I can think of only one solution, one method of forcing him to seek medical treatment. I find it cruel to employ it, but my friend leaves me no choice.

I only pray that I have not left my action too late.


	7. desperate measures

_AN: Took a little liberty with the dates… SCANDAL happened in March of 1888, and while no date is stated for GREEK, WBG estimates it to be in 1888 as well. As the narration in GREEK implies it occurs in mild weather (Holmes and Watson walk to the Diogenes Club), I've taken it to have happened shortly after SCANDAL._

"Sherlock, wake up."

Holmes had been dozing on the settee, something he had rarely done before taking ill but now did with some frequency. He opened his eyes, thinking himself to still be dreaming when he saw the robust form of his brother looming over him.

The detective scrambled to sit up. "And to what do I owe this visit?"

"Your poor health," frowned Mycroft, determination itself upon his features. "Dr. Watson claims you will not see a physician even though your condition is worsening."

"It is not worsening, Mycroft, it is simply not improving. Yet," he protested, attempting to mimic his brother's expression. "Besides, you can hardly make me see a doctor."

"That is where you are wrong, though I hope it does not come to that. It will be rather demeaning for both of us." In case it came to that, he had requested that Dr. Watson wait in the hansom.

Holmes considered his chances, his brother's decline in physical aptness since the last time this particular game had been played, and then bolted for his bedroom.

Mycroft Holmes had been required to take a short course on basic self defence when he first joined his department and he never forgot anything. He grabbed his brother by the wrist, using his own momentum to heave him onto his shoulder, holding him there firmly. Not very dignified, not at all, but desperate times called for desperate measures.


	8. necessary cruelty

"Where the irons really necessary?" questioned Holmes, holding up his cuffed hands as Mycroft filled out his paperwork. Blasted waiting rooms, full of sick people… He'd likely end up worse than he was before.

"They weren't until you tried to tried to unhinge the window in the carriage," Watson replied from behind a drastically outdated periodical. "This is for your own good, Holmes."

"That's what victims of genocide often hear, you know."

"Sherlock, would you kindly stop sulking for the remainder of this visit?" sighed his brother, sitting down heavily next to him. "This is one of Whitehall's privately staffed specialists, and let me assure you that Dr. Trenton is the best diagnostician we have on our payroll."

"Perhaps being looked over wouldn't hurt…" the detective murmured, a child's reluctance in his voice. He tried to cross his arms but the hostile jangling of metal reminds him of his bindings.

"There's the spirit. She'll have you good as new in no time."

"She?" The frown returned in an instant.


	9. the lady doctor

"Does your husband know you're doing this?"

"He's in the office down the hall, you can ask him yourself if you'd like."

Dr. Felicia Trenton was a woman of average height, slightly heavy, dark hair back in a tight bun that made it clear no nonsense would be tolerated, and she looked at the world through sharp blue eyes.

Her father had been a doctor and her mother had not lived through the birth of their only child.

Her father was a kind but busy man; she had spent her childhood in a doctor's practise so that he could keep his only child near him.. Anatomy texts had been her picture books, and she had learned to read from medical journals. Her schooling did not end with the last period being dismissed but with the lamps in the practise being dimmed after the final surgery of the night.

Twenty-nine and a woman and she was one of the best doctors in Whitehall after climbing the ranks with tooth and nail extended, managing to marry along the way. She had attended to both royalty and convicts, and now seemed to have a mix of the two.

"We can start with the physical examination, or you can give me several specimens first. Patient's choice," she informed him, attempting not to smirk at his fidgeting. "Don't worry, there's an attendant here to make sure your innocence is not entreated upon."

The young nurse giggled from the corner.

Holmes glared, wondering if pyrokinesis was possible if one truly put their mind to it. "I'll give you your specimens."

She shoved a trio of thick glass beakers his way. "Through that door. Enjoy."


	10. relations

Sherlock Holmes frowned halfway through buttoning his shirt back up. There had been a screen, of course, but the damned nurse had been snickering behind her hand the entire time. "Do you really need to know that?"

"It's important, yes," the doctor sighed, pen pausing on her sheaf of notes. "Just answer the question, Mr. Holmes."

"Why exactly do you need to know the last time I had… relations?"

The nurse giggled. The girl was truly not in the right line of work.

"Because it may very well be a disease transmitted sexually, and if this is the case I can either identify it as such or inform your recent partners. You don't have to give names or details," Dr. Trenton all but coaxed. She was used to prying this information out like a dentist pulling teeth, her usual clinic patients being women, young women mostly, who were proper ladies in every other sense but keeping their knees together. "Actually, I'd rather if you didn't go into detail."

"Fine…" the detective finally grumbled as he fought to get his tie redone. It was hard with anyone other than his reflection watching. "About six or seven weeks ago."

"You're telling me the Great Detective can't remember the exact date?"

"Forty-four days ago. I don't quite remember the time. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough," agreed the doctor, scribbling down the last of it. "I'll get back to you as soon as I have half an idea, Mr. Holmes. At the moment I'm in the mist, but no one person can remember every single disease, and I suppose that's why they made the printing press and the medical textbook. Contact me if your symptoms worsen."

The man scuttled out the door like a schoolboy from detention, leaving Dr. Felicia Trenton to puzzle over a set of symptoms that seemed somehow familiar yet still entirely off.


	11. heal thyself

Dr. Samuel Trenton never complained about being married to an entirely impossible woman. He had known she was impossible when most of their university class had, when she shouted down a professor over the number of ribs in a female skeleton. She had calmed down over the years from a fireball of anger to an ember still flickering with brashness, but her impossibility remained firm.

When he had left the house, he had made his wife swear she would leave her study and salvage a few hours of sleep. When he returned from the urgent visit to a child suffering from scarlet fever, she was still pawing away at stacks of mouldy textbooks liberated from the depths of the obscure stacks of most of the medical universities in and surrounding London.

"Filly…" If anyone else in the world had called Dr. Felicia Trenton "Filly", she likely would have knocked them out and surgically constructed them a new orifice of some kind. "You need sleep now."

"The symptoms aren't so uncommon…" she all but moaned, resting her forehead on the smooth cherry wood desktop. "Why can I not figure this out…?"

Samuel picked up the patient's file again, frowning deeply. Fresh eyes often broke a case, and this was no exception. He knew his wife's condition, though she did not, but this chart proclaimed a male. "Filly, you've been having many of these same symptoms before you ever met your patient. More insomnia, of course, and less vomiting. You cannot diagnose him because, as impossible as it seems, I believe the two of you suffer from the same disease."

Felicia sat up straight, eyes blinking tiredly. "What is it, then? Spit it out, Samuel!"

"My darling, when was the last time you bled?"


	12. bunnies

_Edit: A little note... The rabbit test, in reality, wasn't released until 1927. This wasn't an error on my part; I was hoping it was clearly implied that Whitehall has advanced technology at its disposal. I realize, however, I might have been a bit too vague, and that's why I'm mentioning it here._

Nine rabbits later, Dr. Felicia Trenton had finally accepted the conclusion; both she and Sherlock Holmes were pregnant. As she did not wish to think of the implications of her own motherhood, she instead turned her attention to her patient.

It was impossible. He was male, males did not have children, and therefore it should not have been the reality. But then there was the rabbit test… One botched result she could understand, but six? It had taken three tests for her to accept her own condition, but she had taken his even further.

There was only one explanation, of course, excluding voodoo. It was not going to make her popular with her patient, but Dr. Trenton had rarely been one to care about what lowly patients thought of her. Besides, he would have to admit it; the writing was on the wall.

Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, was a woman.

She had examined her, yes, but as a proper doctor of the opposite had to do, her eyes had been averted the entire time something (or rather, nothing) had been exposed, and the detective was a master of disguises; surely she had worked out some kind of prosthetic.

Humming to herself as she packed her black bag, knowledge of such a deep secret amusing her, she wondered briefly if this particular case was making it into the Strand.

Because of his false title as an accountant, Mycroft occasionally received actual accounting work. Sometimes he did it merely for the reprieve from serious matters. When he saw the bill for nine rabbit tests, he inwardly groaned and wondered how many temporary secretaries he would be forced to deal with during a mass maternity leave.


	13. kind blackmail

Were she not a woman, Holmes would have stuck her across the face thirty seconds ago. It did not mean he was not still considering it, it was simply not his first reaction. "Excuse me?!"

Dr. Trenton was standing before him, a smug look on her plain face. She had discovered what no one else in the entire city had discovered. Well, to be fair, her husband has discovered it, but it being her case the credit was hers, and that was what mattered.

She wondered if the detective would offer a bribe. She would never be a blackmailer, of course, but if money was offered she could fancy a second honeymoon.

"I said," she responded, enjoying every word of the statement, "that you, Sherlock Holmes, are and always have been a woman. You likely disguised yourself to pursue your profession. You're abnormally tall for our gender, I'll give you that, but then there's high shoes, chest binding… But the diagnoses leaves no room for debate, so you might as well fess it up now, Miss Holmes."

"And just what is your diagnosis?" His right fist practically itched to be swung. "That I'm simply experiencing a prolonged monthly curse?"

"I'm surprised you haven't realized, or perhaps you castrated yourself so you no longer bleed? You, my good lady, are going to be a mother."

Holmes stood in silence for several moments, then marched to the door and flung it open. "Could I perhaps have a straight jacket and a tranquilizer in Exam Room B? I have a woman here in hysterics!"


	14. a foolproof test

They had nearly gotten her into the straightjacket before one of the attendants caught a glance at the framed diploma on her office wall and thought to confirm with the secretary which individual in the office was the doctor and which was the patient.

No matter how much they apologized, she still felt flustered, bruised, and nauseous. Dr. Trenton was ready to castrate the entire male race, two impending fathers in particular. No, a mother and a father. He was a she, after all. Or so she insisted until, hearing the commotion, the elder and (likely) male Holmes and the cross dresser's roommate (the father?) entered.

Not the commotion made by the attendants; they had been rather discreet. This was the commotion made by the doctor and the patient attempted to out-holler one another.

Watson came in just in time to have Holmes collapse at his feet. "Good Lord…! Did he faint?!"

Dr. Trenton was looking rather pale. To prove her point of the detective's femininity, she had planted a rather malicious kick to what shouldn't have been that sensitive of an area. "No, but I might just."

At least he had signed a waiver submitting to any test she saw fit to administer…


	15. helpful restraints

"I really need to invest in a pair of those handcuffs," Dr. Trenton commented as she watched the detective struggled against his binds from the other side of the glass, his friend attempting to calm him the best he could. She was surprisingly calm; shock did that to a person, made them mellow before they snapped and carved every bar of soap in London into polar bears. "So, what now?"

"I was hoping you would have an answer to that," answered Mycroft Holmes, his sigh deep. His mind was churning like cog wheels and yet he simply could not process all of this.

"Termination at this point is out of the question. It's dangerous enough on women, and we don't even know where this thing is rooted. It would be serious exploration surgery, high risk of a bleed-out, infection… By the time we'd be able to find it easily, it would be easier just to let it finish its time."

"Dr. Trenton, you do not know my brother like I do. To imagine a man enduring a pregnancy is enough, but my brother… May I say his habits would likely not result in a healthy child?"

"Then I suppose his habits will alter." She was sure of this, not as if she believed Sherlock Holmes currently cared a lick for the cluster of cells working on forming a skull. Dr. Watson would be the one who would be the defended of the weak and the hider of the tobacco.


	16. surrogate

Watson had been sitting across from Holmes for a good half hour, and he was starting to become worried; his friend had been sitting as still as stone, face buried in the hand not handcuffed to the examination table, saying nothing. "Holmes…? Come on, old man, you've got to say something."

"What is there to say?" he grumbled, not able to meet his friend's eyes.

An excellent question, really. "Well…Who's the father? Er, mother? Or…"

"Quite frankly, I'm not sure if it's any of your concern," he snapped back, temper heavily frayed by the most surprising information he could get. He might have preferred it if he'd been diagnosed with some horribly fatal disease.

"I merely wanted to know if they were in this picture as well or if it's I who's going to have to put up with amplified moodiness and swollen ankles alone."

Holmes finally looked up to see the tentative smile on his friend's face. He sighed, forcing a smile himself. "I'm afraid it's the later, dear fellow."

He had been afraid of that. "I'll blow the dust off my pre-natal textbooks."


	17. rules

Watson had not realized how far the field of medicine had advanced until he dug his pre-natal textbooks out of a trunk in his room and leafed through them. He did not specialize in females, let alone pregnancies, but even he knew many of the details were outdated.

Holmes was just awaking from a long nap when he returned, a stack of texts in his arms which he dumped upon the table.

"The first rule is this," he spoke without having to read up on the latest opinions. "No cocaine or its ilk, no tobacco, no alcohol."

The detective spluttered, about to reject this demanded when he was cut off.

"I have observed many babies, Holmes, and I have colleagues who have observed many more. These are significant risk factors, and this seems to be a high-risk pregnancy from the very start. The second rule is that you will maintain proper eating and sleeping habits. I plan to tell Mrs. Hudson when she returns from her errands, and when I am not home you can expect her to be enforcing these rules."

He grumbled, of course, but there was no way he could resist this. He knew from his church lessons as a boy that extramarital copulation was a sin, but he had not expected the punishment so promptly. "Anything else?"

"I imagine there will be, but I have some reading to do before I announce them." He smiled, picking up the first book and settling into an armchair. "We'll get through this together, my friend."

Holmes had a feeling his companion was enjoying this more than a good friend should.


End file.
